The ravens know, annoying as they are,

loudly displaying their disapproval all day

adding their cries to our growing unease

from the happy treetops of our suburban paradise.

The rainbow lorikeets sound happy

but then, I don’t speak bird.

I jump out of my skin when blue-tongued lizards

hiss as they hold my gaze,

still steep my eyes in jacaranda blossoms,

still smell the summer sun, mid-spring,

when the day starts outside my window,

still wonder where

the honey blossom perfume is coming from.

I read food ingredient labels and provenance charts

in the supermarket, watching after my health,

wondering, didn’t I just read only eat Atlantic Salmon or …

something is wrong with milk, what was it now,

where do I turn to next.

How old was Cassandra

when she spoke what she saw – twelve, thirteen, sixteen?

She looked at the sorrow straight in the eye,

unblinking, a sorrow grown men could not bear,

the apocalypse unfolding in front of them.

We’re grieving, make no mistake about it.

Holding our kernel of hope in the palm of our hand,

hoping that walking by, ignoring the battle lines,

making the best of it, will work for us this time round

and we leave the outrage to the children.

The ravens know.